Making Milktea
by Peridot Tears
Summary: China stabbed at France again and again, his blood painting his hands. And there was laughter - it was a hateful sound. Racial slurs, cultural slurs - lots and lots of bad language. Quite a bit of blood and violence.


_Disclaimer: Ha._

...

"Did you, or did you not kill him?"

"Let go, Fa Guo." China placed his hand on France's, eyes burning flints; glaring him down, he squeezed—against resistance. "Let go."

"Well?" Yao watched him coldly, as France spat; adamant. "Did you?"

"You Europeans...," Yao said, letting his words trail away. His eyes hardened, a depth of black, smoldering...ink...hatred...he tightened his grip, so that it was no longer gentle. "Thinking you can take all of Asia—"

France's bayonet cracked against his face; a flash of moonlight, splintered juice; the blood flowed down China's face, red as his hands. With a hiss, Yao kicked him, hard—rounding so that he twisted away; his body was old, and strong—exhaustion fell away like a cloak. "You are a young ruffian, France!"

"And you are old and weak," France replied evenly, his Chinese shaking; in a flash, he reversed to French, so that China would not understand, to taunt him. "You are old, you are ridden by opium..." The tip of his bayonet waved, and Yao could see it, eyes narrowed; it dangled there, and halted, reaching over so near so that it was beneath his chin. "We Europeans have rifles, and bayonets," he breathed, with glittering gaze. "What do you have?—_that"—_he waved a hand dismissively at the rifle Yao held, limp—"and _that"—_China's dao, lying on the ground.

Francis only saw steel.

Yao hardly moved, it seemed—for one moment, he was standing at the mercy of France, and the next, he stood with the dao, backing the European into the wall. "Wo ye you zhei ge," he replied, simply.

Then slashed.

France keeled over, blood pooling in the instant; but he fought; he always fought—back, at least. But he was here, and it was so for he was to fight; Vietnam was worth fighting for. So on the instant he shot; shot Yao in the arm, and aimed for the throat but thought better of it—the elder stooped the ground with a grunt of pain, kicked out once, then slashed at the Frenchman's throat; his aim was true, but shallow.

And so they keeled over together—as enemies would, staring at each other, never daring to look away, breaths drawing in and out. Sharp, steel, and the terrible burning in their tortured white throats.

There was only that strangled silence for a moment—silence, and their breath; the air was voiceless. France took the first word, with defiance, as he clutched at his throat, feeling: "Angleterre, he..."

Yao's fist clenched, replying by itself; he added to the gesture. "Ying Guo is worse than you," he spat, with blood. He understood, France understood; Ying Guo, Angleterre—it was England; can one forget the name of a bitter enemy? Yao would never, and France would never; no matter what language, they knew enough to see through it. A beat—China then added, eyes slit like a phoenix's, "Pity you cannot even make a better foe than him."

"Do not—believe—that ANGLETERRE—"

"Shut up," Yao snapped, kicking at the air. But France was not one to comply, and how could he?

"He burns young girls," he continued; China's order had merely knocked him down another path. "Did you know?—he burned Jeanne d'Arc; she was nineteen, she fought for me, she fought for God; England, he had her burned, the slimy—"

"Jeanne d'Arc could at least be a French Mulan, then," China said coolly, though visibly shaken at the mention—France had underestimated him, China could understand the French, at least to a fair extent. He sniffed slightly.

Silence engulfed them then; France sniffed back, but said nothing. He could feel a slight burning in his chest as he knelt, as if he had inhaled twelve bottles of wine without stopping—or, more effectively, vodka...

"But that," China added, bringing France's attention back on him, "would be an insult to Hua Mulan. She was better than any product of the French—"

"You do not know Jeanne D'Arc!" France hissed, outraged. His eyes colored cobalt, dancing with fire expelled from his chest. "You _did not _know her...she burned, and she was only nineteen, maiden of Orleans..."

"Hua Mulan was a woman among the Han," China retorted coldly. "Her father allowed a nu zi to run off to fight among men, and she kept the façade for many, many years. When she should have been tottering about, looking for a man her parents would choose for her...when she should have been staying home and caring for her parents, she left to save her father's life. Her brother was too young, and she only had a sister aside from him. But she left, and she fought. So hard that she was offered a high spot in court. And your Jeanne?—what did she do?"

France cursed him, throwing a small dagger; its tip ran into a tree, burying itself into the wood; Yao had only felt the swish of it as it flew past his ear. His eyes widened, then narrowed, and he reached for his dao; thinking better of it, he pulled the trigger, and in a puff of smoky powder a bullet had pushed into France's shoulder. Francis cried out, cursing him, as he clutched his shoulder, the blood flowing from his fingers. "Go to hell," he groaned. "Go to hell with Angleterre, God damn you..."

"God?" And the sound filled the air—a clanging, harsh sound, as if the devil himself had ascended to earth. France cringed, glaring defiantly at China as he rose, rifle in hand—the latter was cackling, taunting him. A shrill and whistling sound that filled the ears; Francis clamped his hands over his ears, wanting it all to fade away. An image flashed into his head—Henri Riviere, dying as Yao stood over him, laughing Satanic laughter. Tears filled his eyes, tears of anger, as China shredded his heart with iron claws. And when it finally settled, his vision was blurred; so was China's. Yao looked drunk, dizzy, as he said, "You and your fake God...you all the other lofan, coming to tell us what to do, when our ancestors have lasted even longer than your Shang Di. You and your fake beliefs, coming and using it as an excuse to take our land, which is greater than yours..."

"God damn you!" Francis yelled. "Vietnam is mine! I'm taking better care of her heathen land than you!" Another bullet whizzed past his ear, but he had lifted his own weapon, taking careful aim, and he thought his God was with him, because another red blossom sprouted from Yao's chest, not enough to be fatal, but enough to hurt. It would leave the older nation crippled for months to come. The blood flew in their faces, a bomb blown up, and they sneered at each other, flying into action once more. They did not stop talking, even as they clashed and danced, silver fire seeming to flare in the din.

"Hua Mulan is better than your Jeanne, died fighting for a fake God—"

"Nobler than your whore of a girl, who should've died! She's in hell—"

"—we are speaking of religion! Very well, then!—you will have a better afterlife—"

"—your ancestors are dead!"

"—if you worship your ancestors!"

On and on it went, as they glared and bled and sweat, as Yao's dao caught Francis in the thigh and received a bayonet in the chin; it sheared past his throat, and they fell away from each other, breathing harder than ever.

"Get out of Vietnam!" Yao spat, tossing aside his empty rifle.

"Never!" Francis unsheathed his bayonet. Blue fire raked brown embers as they stared each other down, both dizzy from exhaustion and blood loss. They were burning together, the two of them. China huffed at him, and spoke again—

"You don't like Ying Guo a lot...but you yang guizi are all the same. Coming to Asia. Taking Vietnam." He dropped into a stance, back straight, holding the dao at his side. Francis did not reply, instead opting to glare at his side, contemplating a feint as he fingered the bayonet. His eyes caught the sheen of light resting on the dao. "Ying Guo gave us opium." Yao blinked as he glared, his hair limp on his shoulder. His hatred pulsed in his blood, and his rage returned in the midst of weariness. He had not had so much opportunity to spit in a foreigner's face, only glare at them as they swarmed into Asia, oppressing his people in their own home. This was what he thought of, day after day; haunting him, these thoughts tore at him now. Vietnam needed him, he thought. And that was why he fought. Henri Rivière's death had brought him satisfaction, because now France was here, demanding the nature of such a death. He sneered at the Frenchman, taking aim with his weapon. He was not one to savor a victory, dragging it out—he had learned long ago that it was a fatal mistake—but for once, he had to hurt France; sting him, touch him in places where it would pain him, where he could plunge his blade, again and again. His heart wished to fail him; his mind wished to sleep: But he had to have this, as his wrath grew. "You are pathetic, coming here... Ying Guo poisoned us with opium, and now you all carve up our home..."

He reached forward with his dao, taking France by the shoulder; the latter flinched, otherwise unmoving. He was trying his patience. "Chinois, Angleterre has done the same to my land"—his voice was dangerously low—"and in the process burned Jeanne d'Arc. She was a gift from God, and he burned her.

"Do you know how terrible that is?" Francis's skin was flushed, as if he rarely spoke of it. When Yao said nothing, he went on: "He burned Jeanne. She fought against him in God's name, she restored the rightful king to the French throne. And yet she was captured, tried as a heretic, and burned. She was good at defending herself," he murmured. "She worked so hard. She was only about thirteen when she set out to bring France victory. And she was burned, and no one—not even the king or me—could stop it—" He paused; his face darkened. "No... We could. But we did not." He gazed at China with blue fire, but China only curled his lip; mere words could not gain his grudging respect, not like this.

"Foolish girl," he murmured, watching France's every move. "Fighting for a God who was never there."

"She was only nineteen!"

"Hua Mulan was a woman," Yao said. "Do you know how hard it is to be a Chinese woman? Like what you and the other guizi are doing now... You sei wai lou..." He took a deep, shuddering breath; his bones rattled in their cages. "I did not kill your admiral"—and here it was; the scorn, like poisoned ice turned vapor, floating in the air from his voice, piercing France, searching his core; and the steel of it, plunging in as a blade, it was a molten solid respect. Cold, grudging respect. "No...you are not like Ying Guo. You are Fa Guo, and you are a yang guizi, just like him. But..." he reached out a hand "my men killed Rivière. He died in battle. Fa Guo..." His hand was bloody, the copper red running through his fingers; it was a beautiful, terrible sight. Yao's eyes softened, as if in remorse, as France made to back away. "Fa Guo, I remember when you were younger. Your face was not so lined. I remember your face...when I first gave you a china cup, and it cracked with the hot tea in it. And when you put milk in it...and I did not like it." He sighed, "Sei wai lou."

And France reached out a hand. The blood was on his face, and his body ached. And yet his mind raged, as Henri Rivière called to him from someplace beyond him. Vietnam. He was here for Vietnam. Indochina. Indochina needed him.

China's fingertips, his ragged nails, touched his.

It all happened at once:

China's dao sank into France's shoulder; France's bayonet pierced China's ribs; there was a dual swish of blood, as metal was yanked from flesh and bone. Their cries were hoarse in their throats, and they lunged into the woods again, away from the madness, away from the other; someplace where they could fight and tire themselves out, and drink tea and insult their enemies in peace.

"YANG GUIZI!" China screamed.

"COOLIE!" France bellowed. And "MURDERER!" was cried.

And they laughed. It was a hateful sound.

...

_**PT: Slurs against Christianity do not reflect my beliefs. Nah, because aside from old values along Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism and whatnot, China is pretty much atheist :\ Yes, I am aware that there are Chinese Christians. Aaaanyways. Inspired by a conversation on dA. I've been meaning to write about the Sino-French war for a while. It was over Vietnam, basically. And Henri Rivière was a French naval officer, killed during the battle of Paper Bridge. This was originally meant to be France and China relating in culture, how they both had badass women in their pasts—Mulan's existence, however, is debatable—and how the French were the first to put milk in tea to keep their china cups from cracking with the heat. Oh yeah, and how they both had-have beef with England. By the by, the English were the ones who first committed the blasphemy of putting sugar only in their tea. YES, THAT IS A BLASPHEMY :| -Tea lover- And yeah. There's a –lot- of racial insult here, in Cantonese and Mandarin. And the whole idea just flew away into this. Yep.**_


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